There are these laws that apply.
I don’t know all of them.

On the woodland trail,
the colors aren’t allowed to stay,
must come down.

A lake iced-over
can hold up my footstep
but not the weight of March sun.

Wildflowers can’t help themselves.
They are always terrible flirts.

The summer sun burns its heart out for me
but I will aways love the Autumn sun more.

This year’s flies are not last year’s flies
but it’s impossible to tell the difference.

The untrained ear will recognize
the blue-jay by its hack,
and the chickadee from the namesake call
but the rest will be just songbirds.

And the crows, with little understanding
of my purpose in hiking through their territory,
will warn all wildlife of my presence.

In the presence of a spectacular waterfall,
the origin and destination of the water
are stories for another time.

The brief life of a butterfly
is a tragedy –
like King Lear with wings.

John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Santa fe Literary Review, and Sheepshead Review. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, La Presa and California Quarterly.